


a little intimacy

by sweetaugustblue



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Emperor Ling Yao, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, like seriously these two are fluffy as hell, ling is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetaugustblue/pseuds/sweetaugustblue
Summary: Something wistful crosses his eyes. He gazes at her left arm as she leans underneath the cherry tree, looking out towards the warm light dancing across the blossoms.She has given so much, and he will always feel he has given so little....This was different—this was a want, a relieved ache, a pleasure. A satisfied little greed.





	a little intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> hi, wow, i'm surprised i haven't used this platform yet to post my works. i'm pretty new to ao3 in general and since tumblr is dead, i figured i'd start uploading my fics here. i'll update my profile soon, but for now you can find me on @ locallovewitch on tumblr.
> 
> also, i wanted to play with these two being playful and NOT totally angsty, as much as i love that about them. i wanted to explore a route in which neither of them dread the comfort between them, the "little intimacy" that they share. hopefully it wasn't too ooc—when it comes to these two i'm much MUCH better at writing angst, lol. practice makes perfect though!

There is rarely a still minute within the capital of Xing. Even in the moments of dawn, where the edges of sky are just beginning to tint the world soft hues of blue, clearing fog into dew and later dew into cool spring air, there’s still the movement of those first waking people, and those that still scatter the streets from the previous night blending into the new day; crawling along, rising to a more conscious state—or, in the case of drunkards and prostitutes, turning in for the morning for a sliver of rest.

The night is not any more quiet either. Sweet music stirs the wind as it moves, too, and the scent of fresh street food follows it. Soft voices in alleys whispering tender things, adults out in the streets smoking and chatting away after having put their children to sleep, and even the scurry of dogs chasing scents through the streets. There is the occasional hiss of a door closing or a bubble of laughter coming up from happy faces.

It is not ever quiet; still, within the palace walls, the Emperor and his Shadow find a moment. To themselves, a soft bit of time, a small something to cherish.

Ling Yao stands from the chair at his desk, catching Lan Fan’s attention from her point at the one window in the room. She does not turn, only shifts slightly. He carries on his way and snuffs the lamp on the desk, watching the walls as they fade to a dull rose, catching what is left of the afternoon.

When she finally rotates herself to him just so, the sun is orange around her black silhouette. A gravity settles within Ling when he looks at her, holding her eyes.

Lan Fan does not speak; only cocks her head, dark eyes reading him carefully. She does not wear her mask.

He crosses the room to the door, passing her with a grin, and she follows with only a tilt of her head, puzzled by that cat-like face—she knows better than anyone what his mischief looks like, how it lights up across his face like that. He motions for her to stay behind in the room and she halts rather quickly, tensing her shoulders in preparation for some threat.

Nothing comes. She roots herself in order to sense the Dragon’s Pulse in case something does, and there are little lights of warmth moving slowly, tiredly through the halls, but nothing malicious seems to appear.

Coming back to the world, she listens to Ling as he stops a passing servant and cannot detect his whisper; she cannot hear what the other person says either and something in her itches—of course a servant would never speak louder than the Emperor, if speaking at all. She’s never really been one for surprises—having been a bodyguard long enough, she’d stamped out the excitement that came with surprises because surprises usually meant death.

Ling motions her forward again and hums to himself quite loudly, taking her down a path as what she recognizes as the way to one of the gardens.

The sky is still rosy, and she notes how it resembles the skin of a fair peach, so smooth and without a trace of cloud.

“As I recall when we were children, your favorite season is spring, isn’t it, Lan Fan?”

Her head perks up, and he’s gazing at her, wonder worn plain on his face like any other feature. She notes how his hair has fallen loose of the bun at the back of his head, coming down to his shoulders, long strands hugging him gently.

“Ah, it is, _Your Majesty_.”

She only says it to annoy him, and almost, _almost_ bursts into laughter when he scowls and a pout contorts his face a moment later. He bristles.

“The flowers are in wonderful bloom this year,” she offers, something playful coming over her eyes.

Ling bites something back and Lan Fan catches it, staring at him quizzically, but he only shrugs it off and looks up at the sky.

“I’m much more of an autumn person. It gives me an excuse to find something warm to snuggle,” comes teasingly from him, and he walks slowly forward, folding his hands within his robes.

Lan Fan doesn’t miss it. “Surely you mean _someone_ ,” and immediately she wants to cough out the words, clear them from her head—heat rises to her cheeks and she wonders if her face is as bright as the pink sky at that very moment.

“ _Surely_ , don’t I?” Suggests Ling, not moving to look her in the eye. A chuckle escapes his lips and Lan Fan must stifle the urge to protest—there are too many presences she can feel nearby for that familiarity they both crave.

Besides, she knows he loves summer more than anything—the cold only makes him more prone to collapsing.

As he walks Lan Fan takes notice of the broadness of his shoulders, the long hair coming down more now to play about his back; petals dust his shoulders like powdered snow, though the illusion is only in its color, and not in its movement—they flit about too easily, sweep across the ground and through the air as if weight were only a voluntary thing.

Something lifts in her chest when the rays of sun turn gold and the light drips like honey between his robes, heaps of blues and yellows and whites caught in the glory of early evening. There’s a song on his lips that she knows, and had they been alone she might sing along too—he always enjoys her little hints of song, as much as she is shy about it.

They turn into an alcove between lilies and towering cherry trees, full bloom showering down on them in a fury of sweet wind and silky blooms.

There’s a tray of food set in the middle of a blanket, right under the largest tree; they are so far from view, shrouded in the peak of spring, and the light of the setting sun shifts the world just slightly off its rotation. In that second, it is just Lan Fan, and her prince, her life’s duty, the person who, without question and without doubt, she knows is her soulmate.

And he turns to her, and his face is soft and uncreased and alight with a certain joy that only this time of year can bring—he’s smiling then, flowers scattered in his hair. He flops without grace on top of the blanket and onto his side, welcoming her to sit. She’s lax now, sinking so unladylike onto the blanket; _that_ feels good, even if she has no real responsibility to be ladylike, because the court is stuffy and overbearing on the both of them.

Reaching for a sliced strawberry, he’s the first to speak.

“Don’t you _dare_ say you aren’t worthy of this, either—”

A small laugh spills from her lips as she sucks on a slice of mango, a slurping sound coming from her mouth and tongue. Ling rolls his eyes in mock disgust.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she quips, looking away before he can say much else.

His form rises up, one hand under the other which holds sliced fruit, and offers it to her mouth. Promptly she turns her head away, preferring to eat the mango in her hand instead.

An eyebrow cocks up.

“Are you refusing food from your Emperor, Lan Fan?”

“N-No,” but his fingers are so close to her mouth that she could dart her tongue out and taste him, and everything in her wants that so she must stifle the desire, accept what she can of this little intimacy, “And it was never an order, only an offering.”

“I do recall you like strawberries.”

Lan Fan does not grumble about accepting his offer, but that doesn’t stop her from pursing her lips shyly or the blood that rises quickly to her face.

Of course, like this, she is caught off guard, the haze of spring and fruit and Ling, her prince, bringing sweet fruit to her lips, because how could she not, and so he takes this chance to drop the food into his open hand and stick one finger in her mouth—

That time she protests, tongue tasting the sweat from his fingers along with that saccharine taste of strawberry (she notices the hint of honey, too).

“ _Ling!_ ”

He barks with laughter and throws his head back.

“I could hardly resist!”

She’s thrown herself to the ground, prostrated before him, head hung in shame. The taste still lingers on her mouth. The only thing she hears is the rustle of his robes as his hand pats her head, yanking her top knot loose.

Still, she does not come up from the ground. In this moment she would rather wallow in her mess of inky hair than look him in the eye; a breath of a laugh comes from his lips before the rumble of his voice fills the air. It tickles something in her stomach and makes butterflies come up.

“Pick yourself up, Shadow,” he says, his tone even, knowing. Only her eyes come up, meeting his and begging for forgiveness.

He shares the strawberry with her this time, grinning cheshire all the while, hiding his laughter behind his long and beautiful sleeve.

When they’re done, and the lamps in the garden are softly lit, the smallest of crickets whistling away to the night and some faraway frogs chirping their song, something settles over them—it is not thick or heavy, and it seems to come up under Ling’s robe, plays in his hair he’s tugged down to play at his shoulders, similar to his companion’s.

Something wistful crosses his eyes. He gazes at her left arm as she leans underneath the cherry tree, looking out towards the warm light dancing across the blossoms.

She has given so much, and he will always feel he has given so little.

He leans over then, still tasting mango and strawberry and just a hint of honey on his mouth, and comes right into her proximity, without warning, without order.

Lan Fan blinks once, then twice, tilts her head to the side. Her hair swims over her cheeks lazily in the evening breeze.

Ling Yao, the Twelfth son of the previous Emperor, the procurer of the sacred Philosopher’s Stone, nearly doubles over for how beautiful she is right then and there.

A hand comes up to brush her hair away. She does not make an utterance, only watches curiously, some form of a smile playing at her lips. He sees her stiffen when his fingers brush her cheek, a hint of something she wants but will not declare with her mouth. He knows this, knows her very well; he must draw these things from her, command them, speak them aloud and let her consider them carefully. Lan Fan has always been free to refuse and yet, sitting here before him in the lamplight, the hazy spring breeze like an opium high between them, gazing wondrous at one another, she makes no movement away from him, parts her lips just so.

His thumb finally rubs by her lower lip.

Pink spreads across her cheeks once more.

Generously, he offers his other hand to her and she accepts; he leans up, to her surprise, and kisses her forehead first, brings her automail hand to his mouth and kisses that too—

“Ling?” She whispers then, and she knows what they are both doing, makes no move to turn away. It is an opening for him to turn tail, and he rejects it with ease.

Her eyes flutter shut.

Softly, carefully, he presses his lips to hers, a tender kiss, a kiss of memories not forgotten but still craved. It is not their first kiss but it is a yearning one. They’d kissed as children once, and then several times in the dark when they grieved and silently needed and comforted each other after their return from Amestris. This was different—this was a want, a relieved ache, a pleasure.

A satisfied little greed.

Ling pulls away then, watching with a loving eye as Lan Fan’s eyes widen open and she realizes what they’ve just done, shoving her head into his lap.

“My lord, forgive this one! Please!”

It comes out muffled by his robes, but he understands it nonetheless.

He only rubs her head and picks up her face a moment later, squeezing her round (and practically _pouting_ ) cheeks in his hands, grinning to himself.

“Happy birthday, Lan Fan.” Is all he murmurs, giving into her, holding her close. Her shoulders collapse into him, bending near perfectly into his form. A hand strokes the place where her metal arm meets fabric and the fabric covers flesh; she does not flinch this time, only shifts slightly and looks up at him, a happy smile tugging at her mouth.

Her flesh hand comes up to touch his face if only to feel his warmth, to feel that same little intimacy she so craved and longed to bleed for, to earn from him. What she is coming to know is that he will give even if she gives tenfold or none; he will not take unless welcomed.

Perhaps, she muses, it is a happy birthday indeed—if not one that will fluster her for weeks to come.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed! feel free to tell me what you think, but please keep harsher criticism to a limit, i'm really rusty atm. finals are killing me but these two are my lifeblood and they are keeping me ALIVE.


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